b_a_n_s_h_e_e (b_a_n_s_h_e_e) wrote,
b_a_n_s_h_e_e
b_a_n_s_h_e_e

Мариана

Давно я не писала про прерафаэлитских муз, а жаль, их еще много осталось. Сегодняшняя подборка посвящена Мариане, чей образ встречается на картинах Розетти, Уотерхауса и многих других художников.

Под катом большие иллюстрации, так что берегите траффик. Но уменьшать такие картины просто жалко.


Итак, Мариана. Это в первую очередь героиня "Меры за Меру" Шекспира - несчастная девушка, которую ее возлюбленный Анжело покинул из-за отсутствия приданного (и, скорее всего, из-за разных сексуально озабоченных тараканов в голове). Но и за-за интриг остальных персонажей Мариана оказывается в постели Анжело - против этого она ничего не имеет - а в самом конце пьесы они снова вместе и собираются пожениться. Не уверена, что Анжело в восторге от этой идеи, так что получается  gun-point wedding.

По мотивам "Меры за Меру" Альфред Теннисон, любимый поэт прерафаэлитов, написал два стихотворения - Mariana и Mariana in thу South. От первоисточника там остался лишь мотив мучительного ожидания. Мариана чувствует себя всеми позабытой и одинокой - дни сменяются днями, но ее возлюбленный не появляется. Повторение ее горестного восклицания в конце каждой строфы подчеркивает однообразие ее жизни, когда даже красота природы не в силах развеять тоску. Чувства Марианы будут понятны тем, кто часами просиживал у телефона, ожидая звонок любимого человека. И в особенности тем, кто этого звонка так и не дождался.

Вильям Шекспир

Мера за Меру


IV.I. The moated grange at ST. LUKE's.

Enter MARIANA and a Boy

Boy sings

Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again, bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.

MARIANA
Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away.

IV.I. Окруженная рвом ферма у
церкви св. Луки.
Входят Марианна и мальчик.

Мальчик (поет)

Ах, возьми и губы те,
Что так сладко мне клялись,
И глаза, что в темноте
Ложным солнцем мне зажглись;
Но верни печать любви, печать любви,
Поцелуи все мои, все мои!

Марианна
Довольно пенья, уходи скорей.


К сожалению, я не смогла найти перевод этих стихотворений на русский язык. Буду очень рада, если кто-нибудь со мной поделится.

Alfred Tennyson
Mariana

Mariana in the moated grange.'--Measure for Measure.

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, 'The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, 'The day is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, 'The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,
He will not come,' she said;
She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!'


Интересно так же отметить, что первые строки стихотворения Теннисона Mariana упоминаются в мюзикле "Моя прекрасная леди" - там доктор Хиггинс засталяетсвою ученицу повторять их чтобы улучшить ее акцент.


HIGGINS: Now, I want you to read this, and I want you to enunciate every word, just as if the marbles were not in your mouth.

"With blackest moss,
the flower pots,
were thickly crusted,
one and all."
Each word, clear as a bell.

ELIZA "With bla'est moss, the flower pots--" I can't. I can't!

Mariana in the South

With one black shadow at its feet,
    The house thro’ all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
    And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
    An empty river-bed before,
    And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
        But ‘Ave Mary,’ made she moan,
            And ‘Ave Mary,’ night and morn,
        And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone,
            To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

She, as her carol sadder grew,
    From brow and bosom slowly down
Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew
    Her streaming curls of deepest brown
To left and right, and made appear
    Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
    Her melancholy eyes divine,
The home of woe without a tear.
        And ‘Ave Mary,’ was her moan,
            ‘Madonna, sad is night and morn,’
        And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone,
            To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

Till all the crimson changed, and past
    Into deep orange o’er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,
    Before Our Lady murmur’d she;
Complaining, ‘Mother, give me grace
    To help me of my weary load.’
    And on the liquid mirror glow’d
The clear perfection of her face.
        ‘Is this the form,’ she made her moan,
            ‘That won his praises night and morn?’
        And ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but I wake alone,
            I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.’

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,
    Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
But day increased from heat to heat,
    On stony drought and steaming salt;
Till now at noon she slept again,
    And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass,
    And heard her native breezes pass,
And runlets babbling down the glen.
        She breathed in sleep a lower moan,
            And murmuring, as at night and morn,
        She thought, ‘My spirit is here alone,
            Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.’

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:
    She felt he was and was not there.
She woke: the babble of the stream
    Fell, and, without, the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
    The river-bed was dusty-white;
    And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.
        She whisper’d, with a stifled moan
            More inward than at night or morn,
        ‘Sweet Mother, let me not here alone
            Live forgotten and die forlorn.’

And, rising, from her bosom drew
    Old letters, breathing of her worth,
For ‘Love,’ they said, ‘must needs be true,
    To what is loveliest upon earth.’
An image seem’d to pass the door,
    To look at her with slight, and say
    ‘But now thy beauty flows away,
So be alone for evermore.’
        ‘O cruel heart,’ she changed her tone,
            ‘And cruel love, whose end is scorn,
        Is this the end to be left alone,
            To live forgotten, and die forlorn?’

But sometimes in the falling day
    An image seem’d to pass the door,
To look into her eyes and say,
    ‘But thou shalt be alone no more.’
And flaming downward over all
    From heat to heat the day decreased,
    And slowly rounded to the east
The one black shadow from the wall.
        ‘The day to night,’ she made her moan,
            ‘The day to night, the night to morn,
        And day and night I am left alone
            To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

At eve a dry cicala sung,
    There came a sound as of the sea;
Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
    And lean’d upon the balcony.
There all in spaces rosy-bright
    Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears,
    And deepening thro’ the silent spheres
Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
And weeping then she made her moan,
    ‘The night comes on that knows not morn,
When I shall cease to be all alone,
    To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’






Rossetti, Mariana. Иллюстрация к "Мере за Меру." На заднем плане виден поющий мальчик.





Rossetti, Mariana in the South. Иллюстрация к стихотворению Теннисона.






Millais, Mariana.






Millais, Mariana.






Waterhouse, Mariana in the South






Valentine Prinsep, Mariana





Marie Stillman, Mariana.






Arthur Hughes, Mariana

Tags: mariana, preraphaelites
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